Chapter 17
Lady FM Performs Full-Swoon to Steal Focus From Lady A
This was the way this particular headline about Lady Fleur McQuoid read.
Naturally, the loyal McQuoid clan went into full Scottish outrage on Fleur’s behalf.
“Bloody rubbish it is.” Cousin Andromena beat a back-and-forth path across the hardwood floor so fast that Fleur had begun to grow dizzy and looked away many minutes ago. “Bloody, bloody rot they have printed!”
Cassia pounded her hand on a nearby Louis XV ormolu side table where she and Myrtle sat. “The utter gall!”
“Indeed!” Quillon piped in from where he sat, a leg thrown over the arm of his sofa. “As if my twin is anything less than shining.” Her brother’s heartfelt support was the only thing that managed to pull Fleur’s attention briefly into the fray.
He held Fleur’s gaze when he spoke. “Everyone knows diamonds don’t even tarnish.” He cast a worried glance Fleur’s way. “Why, it’s in its Greek name—Adamas.” He paused, locked in on Fleur. “Unbreakable. Invincible. Unconquerable.”
She favored her loyal brother with a small smile. For all the ways her brother was a bother, he was also her best friend. Or he had been until he’d become a man and craved the elder gents’ company.
Warmth moved her heart. Fleur touched her fingertips to her chest and communicated her love, because as twins, they understood one another.
Quillon acknowledged her with a wink and then returned to the McQuoids’ forceful denunciation of vile scandal sheets and their squandering of the written word.
Unlike her family, Fleur’s own emotions did not mirror their passionate outrage. Instead, her thoughts remained fixed on Henry, leaving her indifferent to the commotion.
How enraged he had become on her behalf.
“…What I believe is that there is a man out there in desperate need of killing…”
How sweetly he had proven a friend and offered his support.
“…Your secret is mine. I will help you find his identity. We will find it together…”
And, how tender, how precious the gift he had given her. The one which she had arrived home to find waiting in her bedroom. On her bed. With a black velvet ribbon wrapped about it and a note affixed underneath the tie.
And so, the printer could print what the papers wished to print. The gossip could talk. None of it mattered. Henry had gifted Fleur the works he coveted and spent a fortune on—his Don Juan.
Fleur lovingly glided her fingers over the inscription inside written in a bold hand.
“’T is sweet to win, no matter how, one’s laurels,
By blood or ink; ’t is sweet to put an end
To strife; ’t is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,
Particularly with a tiresome friend:
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;
Dear is the helpless creature we defend
Against the world;
Signed,
Your Friend and Servant
Her friend and servant? Henry, Duke of Hartwell, served no man, but for her, he would abase himself with that salutation.
Overwhelmed by the emotion of Henry’s gesture, Fleur felt tears sting at her eyes, the heat and confusion blending inside her.
This book, this cherished treasure entrusted to her by Henry, was the reason Fleur couldn’t bring herself to care about being on the front page of gossip columns.
This was the only thing she wanted to read. The only words she cared about.
A quiet murmur at Fleur’s shoulder snapped her from her daydream.
“Miss?”
Heart beating fast, she slammed her book closed. Her maid, Mary, as loyal as any McQuoid elders, was like another protective, loving second mother. Discreetly, she handed over a note.
“This arrived for you several moments ago,” she spoke quietly.
Fleur accepted the small ivory scrap.
Creasing her brow, Fleur glanced at the unfamiliar seal and then quickly looked up.
No one attended her and Mary. The McQuoids were still caught up in how the London papers had treated Fleur. Their discourse had taken a rather bloodthirsty and even rowdier turn.
Fleur didn’t waste any time. She slipped her finger under the unfamiliar seal, unfolded the note, and read.
Dear Lady Fleur McQuoid,
Pray, allow me to impart that I am in possession of intelligence which I believe you shall be most anxious to receive.
I have the honor to be, Madam, Your Ladyship’s most obedient and humble servant,
PR
Heart pounding loudly, Fleur looked around. Her family present kept up their vociferous defense.
“My lady?”
Fleur blinked, looking up into the anxious eyes of her maid. “Thank you, Mary. That will be all.”
Offering a hesitant curtsy, Mary hastened from the room.
An odd sensation settled in Fleur’s chest; a heavy, sinking pressure that threatened to bring her down and drown her.
Numb inside, Fleur refolded Mr. Rundell’s letter and buried it inside her book.
As soon as she did, it struck Fleur—the absolute wrongness of putting the note that would lead her to the man she gave her virtue to in the pages of this precious work Henry bestowed her.
With quivering fingers, she eased her Don Juan open enough to catch the broken Rundell and Bridge’s seal and tried for a different reaction—the correct one.
Eager excitement.
After endless time tortured with questions about her lover from Lord and Lady Rutland’s, after all the long-ago daydreaming and sleepless nights, Fleur would have a name.
His name.
Or she was about to. Just as soon as she borrowed her family’s carriage, she headed to the popular shop. The moment she visited Mr. Rundell.
At last!
Even as she reminded herself of her purpose, Fleur could not summon joy.
The emotions she had rushed to assemble—anticipation, determination—rang false, leaving her with emptiness instead.
Did she even any longer want to know? She wasn’t the same girl she had been at the masquerade.
She had been swept away by the night of flowery works and passion.
That night seemed hollow compared to now.
No one noticed as Fleur left the parlor. The carriage was readied with surprising haste. The moment a footman helped Fleur inside, she understood why.
Her stalwart, greying maid sat on one of the pink-upholstered benches. “Since a servant from Rundell and Bridge’s arrived with a note for you, I took the liberty of summoning your carriage,” Mary explained.
Fighting through a sudden queasiness in her belly, Fleur mustered a smile. “Thank you, Mary.”
The older woman had been with the household since the children were little, first as a young nanny and then as the girls’ maid and confidante. Mary was more family than society allowed. Many times, she anticipated Fleur’s actions, even before Fleur herself did.
As the carriage rocked into motion, Fleur sank her neck into the scalloped headrest. Exhausted from too much crying last evening, a welcome sleep tugged her under. And as Fleur drifted off to a quick, dark slumber, she welcomed a short escape from all her greatest regrets and longings.
Her sleep came to an all-too-quick end. Fleur forced herself to open unbearably heavy lashes. Through a veil of confusion, she tried to process where she was. Then she found Mary silently waiting and patiently knitting as Fleur came to.
She covered a yawn. “How long have I been sleeping?”
Mary set down her bone knitting needles. “Perhaps an hour, my lady. Maybe somewhat more?”
“An hour?” Fleur sat up too quickly. The muscles along her lower back pulled and cried out in protest. “Why didn’t you—”
“I knew you needed your rest.”
There was something odd in both the way Mary spoke and the way she looked at her. That queer sensation returned to Fleur’s stomach. She inhaled slowly through her nose, willing it to pass. When it didn’t, she lay her head back and closed her eyes.
Last evening, she stunned Henry with her disclosure.
Not just stunned—she knew she must have horrified him.
What would one expect from a gentleman as honorable and impeccable as the Duke of Hartwell?
Despite his lovely words, deep down she knew he must judge her.
As she, despite her words to the contrary, was coming to judge herself.
The tightness around the corners of his eyes and white, drawn lines at the sides of his hard mouth bespoke his contempt. He might as well have shouted, You blasted harlot! Giving your virtue away. But he hadn’t shouted. He had composed himself and quietly pledged his support and friendship.
Henry had offered to help her learn her lover’s identity. Even though he had signified with those two dances the serious nature of his intentions for Lady Angela, he would give time to Fleur.
But now he needn’t do that. Now, she didn’t require his assistance. Now, she wouldn’t even have these final moments with Henry before his official courting turned into a betrothal. Fleur would do whatever came next with Lord Someone.
Because it did not matter what Rundell revealed. There was but one gentleman whom she wanted it to be.
Henry.
Henry, who had Lady Angela, and Fleur, who had…no certainty the gentleman she had spent those exquisite hours with truly wanted anything with her beyond the carnal.
She drew the curtain back a fraction and peeked outside the back of Rundell and Bridge’s private courtyard. Her family had an engagement tonight with the Tremaines. There would be questions about her absence. She would need to get ready.
“You can just say you were purchasing a piece of jewelry, Lady Fleur.”
Once again, Mary thought of everything.
It was time—
“Lady Fleur?”
Fleur was granted a stay. “Yes…” Her heart stopped. She noted Mary’s bone-white complexion, her haunted stare. “I am the worst friend, Mary. What is it?”
“Oh, Lady Fleur.” The older woman’s voice caught.
A cold shiver unfurled through her. “Mary.” Fleur gathered the maid’s fingers in her own. She gave a light, comforting squeeze. “Tell me what troubles you. I can help—”
A tear rolled down Mary’s cheek. “It is you, Lady Fleur.”
Fleur drew back, taking her maid’s hands with her. “I know I have been preoccupied and failed to see you are suffering—”
“No. No. It is…”